


Practice Makes Perfect

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, romance, fluff. I neither created, nor do I benefit financially, from these characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Practice Needed

**Author's Note:**

> Moved from my collection of short pieces "In Love".

Three nights in a row of dinner and dancing with Raymond Reddington in London, playing her role as his FBI traitor girlfriend in front of the latest blacklister to the hilt, and Elizabeth Keen has had enough. She's sick of it, sick of him, from the tip of her elegantly arranged hair to the open toes of her high patent heels.

Dashing in tux and tails, he's once again walked her to the door of her hotel room, despite her protests.

"I do think it would be in character," he objects mildly, as she fumbles with her key card.

"No, Red, I'm not inviting you in for a night cap," she tells him firmly.

He tilts his head, leans towards her, his mouth working as if he's turning something over with his tongue.

Probably something outrageous he's about to offer her.

"Not even a good-night kiss?" he suggests, raising his chin slightly as if daring her to slug him in response.

It would serve him right if she did just that.

Liz grinds her teeth. She's wearing a designer silk gown, floor-length, in a rich gentian that Red has assured her is 'next season's color in Madrid'. The cut of the plunging neckline is so daring she's been afraid all evening that any sudden movement will result in disaster.

"I once kissed seven different women good-night in the course of the same evening ..." Red begins, lidding his eyes at her.

He's an elegant dancer, a sophisticated dinner companion. Capable of carrying on the most fascinating, humorous, informative conversations in any sort of company.

Why is he always so ham-handed, so clumsy, whenever he attempts to get closer to her?

Liz turns the past over in her mind, smiling absently as Red's story proceeds. As he gestures with his hands, quotes at her in French.

Offering her an apartment at the Audrey, then talking about some other woman. Rescuing her from torture, then not denying that the reason he entered her life was to find the Fulcrum. Telling her he once had people to care about, all gone now.

Even something as simple as admiring her clutch.

Red doesn't want her. He doesn't actually want her to respond positively to his overtures.

The real truth is that he wants her to be seen, by some unknown entity, to be rejecting him, again and again.

Liz flushes as she realizes she's admitted to herself for the first time that if Red ever truly turned his formidable charm on her, she'd be quickly swept away.

"Lizzie?" he sounds irritated. He must have finally realized that she's not listening to him, caught up in her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Red, I was just thinking that you're right."

She smiles sweetly at him, and he stops and closes his mouth on whatever he was about to say next.

"A night cap, then?" he responds at last.

That clinches it for her.

Ever since high school, she's always been the wrong person to bluff, the first person to call a dare.

"No, Red, a good-night kiss."

She sways toward him on her heels, then turns and shoves the key card into the slot. The door swings open.

"And then a night cap."

She precedes him into the room, holds the door.

Red takes off his hat and steps over the threshold a little gingerly, looking around the hotel room at once.

It's a small, high-ceilinged room with a Georgian fireplace, polished period furniture, and heavy gold satin drapes at the windows that look out on the square below.

An expensive, unopened bottle of scotch and two crystal tumblers sit waiting on the dresser, next to a silver vase with a single stem of white orchids.

Her bed has already been turned down.

Liz pushes the door shut, slides the old-fashioned brass security chain in place.

Red strolls over to stand in front of the fire, staring down into the flames.

"Very comfortable," he comments as she comes to stand beside him.

"You mentioned something about a good-night kiss?' she says, not touching him, but standing close enough that she can smell his cologne. So he can smell her perfume, the one he gave her and asked her to wear tonight, in return.

He shrugs.

"Out in the hall. I thought it would be in character," he says with a sniff. "There's no one to see us now."

Liz watches his face as he glances over to the bottle on the dresser, his gaze skittering away from the bed.

Red made her dance the Tango Milonga with him in front of the blacklister and his associates.

She's going to give him some of his own back tonight.

"I think I need some practice before we try that in public," she murmurs, stepping between Red and the fireplace.

She strokes the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, then licks her lips. She's wearing waterproof make-up, so her lips are still perfect, lipstick not smudged despite the long evening of dinner and drinks.

Liz steps closer, looks at Red's mouth, not meeting his eyes.

"Don't you want to kiss me, Red?" she murmurs.

His lips turn down as his hands come swiftly up to grip her bare upper arms and hold her motionless.

"What are you playing at tonight, Lizzie?' he whispers. His gaze searches her face, the warm orange firelight reflecting on the curves of his smooth-shaven cheeks, the copper and silver of his sideburns. His eyes are deep-set within weary circles tonight, the loose pouches of skin beneath his eyes soft and dark.

Without his jovial mask, Red looks every bit of his age and more.

Liz raises her chin defiantly, licks her lips again.

"No? Not interested, if I am?" she taunts him softly.

"No, not merely interested," he whispers back. Then he pulls her to him, and fastens his mouth over hers.

Red kisses the way he does anything else; with thorough and ruthless attention to detail.

Liz is moaning after the first few kisses, caught between the heat of the fire and the intensity of Red's embrace.

She's briefly lost until he catches her wrists.

"Slowly, Lizzie. The night cap?"

Her hands are hooked into the waistband of Red's tuxedo pants. His jacket and his cummerbund have vanished, and his starched white shirt is completely unbuttoned, his black bow tie hanging loose to one side of his throat.

Liz shivers.

She's bare to the waist, the top half of her dress hanging down, her unpinned hair spilling loose down her back.

Red reaches up and very lightly, gently, lifts her gown back up over her shoulders. Covering her.

"I think we both need some more practice before we try that in public," he murmurs.


	2. Practice Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, angsty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moved from "In Bed"

Raymond Reddington hasn't felt like this for so many years that he doesn't even have any frame of reference for the depths of his frustration.

Elizabeth Keen either wants him as badly as he wants her, or she just wants to drive him insane.

Locking himself safely inside his penthouse suite, seven floors above her, Red undresses as he paces back and forth across his bedroom, throwing every item of clothing against the closet door as he removes it.

The feel of her perfect skin, the glow of the firelight. The yielding sweetness of her mouth.

"Not interested?"

He catches a glimpse of himself naked in the gold-framed bathroom mirror through the open door, pauses in mid-stride.

The bulk of his aging body can in no way be mistaken for that of a man of Lizzie's generation. His body hair is light and pale, the feathery strands already shot through with silver.

Whatever foolish impulse led her kiss him tonight, he did the right thing to stop her before they did something unforgivable. Irreparable.

The velvet smoothness of her bare upper arms, so warm in his grasp. Peeling that dress away from her perfect breasts, the shock of her immediate and uncomplicated response to his touch. His kiss.

Her body wanted him then. If nothing else was true about tonight, he has to believe that.

Red wishes with all his soul now for that night cap. For the lonely but familiar solace of the bottle.

But he sent the waiter to her room with the tray and glasses last night, and he didn't order himself anything else tonight before room service shut down.

Naked, Red glares around the expensive suite.

There's nothing here he wants.

Their perfect night of dinner and dancing, the erotic tension of the Tango performed in front of his enemies, it's all ruined.

Red doesn't allow himself to get frustrated like this very often.

He has to remain focused.

The right choice, the only choice, is to dress in his clean, freshly ironed cotton pajamas, drink a glass of soda water after brushing his teeth, and slide alone into bed as he has done almost every night these last twenty odd years.

Red sneers at his lined, tired face in the bathroom mirror as he wearily brushes his teeth.

He wants the bottle in Lizzie's room almost as badly as he wants another of her good-night kisses. And it would be so much safer.

A night cap.

She did offer him a night cap.

The soda water would taste so much better with a splash of that scotch.

Red finishes his water and sits drooping on the side of the bed. There's nothing that irritates him quite so much as self-pity, and he can't seem to keep from wallowing in it tonight.

He glances over at the phone on the cherry wood bedside table. So close he could touch it, the ivory plastic gleaming in the warm light cast by the blue and white porcelain table lamp. Perhaps she's still awake?

She didn't tell him to leave her room.

Red straightened his clothing, collected his hat, and escaped from her room as quickly as possible after he recognized the tears swelling in her wide, shining eyes.

He wrecked her hairdo, and she has all that heavy make-up to remove. She could still be awake.

For a moment he imagines her in a filmy red negligee, then gives his head a little shake. Stares over at the phone again. Liz probably sleeps in some practical, washable little cotton pajama set. In an unflattering pastel, with the FBI logo featured prominently.

Red needs to get control of himself. This is starting to feel like more than just frustration, more than self-pity.

There's a deep black hole always gaping at the very edge of his vision. He's sworn to himself never to fall back in. Every negative emotion or experience, everyone he abandons, hurts or kills, even his helpless, hopeless desire for Elizabeth Keen and everything she represents, they all need to propel him forward, not drag him down.

He really needs that drink.

And he can't just dress in fresh clothing and go searching for someone to sell him a bottle in violation of the local off license laws. The blacklister has eyes throughout the hotel. Raymond Reddington doesn't just wander about alone at night, drunk and maudlin.

He reaches out and touches the phone, but doesn't lift the receiver. The way her small mouth opened for him, her hands sliding urgently against his chest, tugging at his clothing, as if what she wanted most in the world was to touch his skin.

"Not interested?"

He needs to lie down in bed, compose himself, and get some sleep.

His left hand tightens on the receiver. Red looks over, as if from a distance. A pale, well-kept, practical hand, deft and sure. Devoid of the faint sprinkling of hair that decorates his wrist, fine-boned against the smooth navy fabric of his pajama sleeve.

He was so slim at Lizzie's age that his ordinary hands seemed larger, long-fingered. He wore rings back then, unconcerned about thieves or fistfights.

And how many years has it been since he last thought about his wedding ring?

He couldn't bear to leave it in the car, so he tossed the wide platinum band into the half-frozen pond where he first taught his daughter to skate. So he would always know where it was.

The longer Red waits to call, the less likely it is that she will still be awake. Liz needs her sleep for the activities they have planned tomorrow.

And how much worse will it be, if he calls and she doesn't answer the phone? Knowing it can only be him?

Red sits with his head bowed in the dimly lit, luxurious room, almost numb with a longing so intense he can't separate desire from sorrow.

His hand is still on the phone.


	3. Practice in the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moved from collection of short pieces "In Bed".

Liz wakes early and lies in bed on her back, trying to summon the courage to check the time on her phone. Feeling thoroughly and utterly ashamed.

What they did last night, what she did?

Liz had no business teasing him that way.

It makes no difference that she never imagined the loneliness, the hunger, the neediness Red keeps hidden behind his urbane facade. But in his arms, her broken heart recognized it at once, an unbearable amplification of her own empty life. That surge of measureless desire, denied for so long.

She and Red drank a variety of interesting cocktails in between dances, but that's irrelevant.

Neither is it an excuse that he insisted they dance the Milonga.

Nor that he told the blacklister several rather warm stories about his past conquests in her presence. She has no right to be jealous.

If he hadn't stopped her, stopped himself, she'd be Raymond Reddington's lover now. Her career, her credibility, in ruins.

Why do all the years of college, graduate school and work experience, even the rigors of the Academy, suddenly seem like a more than fair trade for a night in his arms?

She cried so hard last night, after he left, that her eyes still feel dry and swollen, as if she has no more tears left.

How is she ever going to face him across the breakfast table in the elegant hotel dining room downstairs?

Make polite conversation? Apologize?

There's a knock on the door.

"Room service."

Liz didn't order room service.

She pulls her weapon from beneath her pillow, slides along the wall to the door.

The knock comes again.

She looks out the brass-rimmed peephole to see a waiter in hotel livery holding a large tray with both hands.

"One minute," she calls through the door to him, hurrying to slip on the long white hotel robe and tuck her weapon away. She grabs money to tip him from her purse.

Liz unchains and unlocks the door, and steps aside for him to set the tray on the end of her bed.

There's a tall carafe of coffee, two china cups.

Oh no.

The phone rings just as she finishes locking the door behind the waiter.

She can't ignore it again.

He called last night while she was still crying.

What she did was bad enough.

She has no right to reproach him with her tears, not after he so tactfully departed last night.

Nor does she want to open herself to the slashing edge of his tongue, the sarcasm Red reserves for anyone sunk in self-pity.

She just couldn't bear that.

The phone stops ringing. Liz hurries to the bedside and picks up the receiver, calls him back before she can stop herself to think about it any further. The first few words will be the hardest.

"Lizzie?"

"You called me, Red?" Her voice sounds almost normal. Just a little congested.

"Yes, I wanted to let you know that I ordered room service for you."

"When are you coming down here?" she asks.

A long silence ensues.

"I'm not dressed yet," he says, finally.

Another long silence.

Somehow, she has to make this right before they attempt to appear together before the blacklister later in the morning.

"I'm in my robe," she responds finally, when it's clear he's not going to say anything more. "Just come down and have some coffee?"

She can almost hear him grimace through the phone at the thought of appearing in the hotel corridors in anything less than his ordinary attire.

"Two minutes," he says finally, then hangs up on her.

Liz pulls the belt tighter on her robe and hurries into the bathroom to brush her hair and scrub the last traces of her tears from her face.

She returns to the tray and lifts the silver cover on the large china plate in the center of the tray, expecting an assortment of pastries.

Eggs, bacon, fruit, and toast. For one.

Now that's she's looking more carefully, there is only one set of utensils on the tray.

The tall carafe of coffee must automatically come with two cups.

What has she done?


	4. Practice, Practice

There's a firm knock at the door. Just one. 

Red.

Liz opens the door, lets him in, already uncomfortably reminded of holding the door for him the previous evening.

Red is wearing a long brown and navy patterned silk robe over navy pajamas buttoned to the neck. His feet are encased in sleek leather slippers. No hat.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he greets her rather jauntily, his smile immediately fading as she closes the door on the public hall. "I trust you slept well?"

Red doesn't look at her as he asks the conventional question, just seats himself on the end of her unmade bed and begins pouring himself a cup of coffee.

The circles under his eyes are deep and dark this morning. She wonders how many hours he managed to sleep.

"No, Red, I didn't," she responds, taking a seat on the other end of the bed. She looks down at the breakfast tray between them. 

"Here you go." Red hands her the first cup of coffee, then pours the second cup for himself. Takes an appreciative sip.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, gesturing as if to lift the silver cover.

He gives a quick shake of his head, finally turning his eyes up to look at her. He doesn't seem angry. There's a certain tenderness in his gaze. Perhaps it's always been there, and she just never noticed it before.

"No, I ate an hour ago," he responds. "You go ahead, Lizzie."

She shakes her head.

"I'm not hungry."

Red is unusually silent this morning, just slowly sipping his coffee. Perhaps he's waiting for her to speak.

"I'm sorry about the night cap, Red," she settles on at last. "You were probably ready for a drink."

They both look over to the unopened bottle of scotch, the untouched glasses.

He gives a rueful little laugh.

"Very perceptive, Lizzie."

There's a heartfelt note in his voice that tells her exactly why he called her so late the night before. Not to lash out at her for her effrontery in calling his bluff. Not to beg for more kisses, or to spend the night in her room.

Liz stares down into her coffee cup.

If she and Red had spent the night together, how different this breakfast would be. 

She longs with a pang of impossible yearning to have been a different woman last night. Either refusing Red entirely, or offering him her whole self, her whole heart. Not that she can imagine ever having the courage. 

She slipped under his guard somehow, or he never would have kissed her that way. Her assigned role in rejecting his advances, pushing him away, is clearly part of some larger plan. More important than whatever drew them together last night.

She can hear Red's breathing, slow and even. As if he's deliberately staying calm.

Was it even real?

There's only one way to find out.

"Was there anything else, Lizzie?" Red asks her. "Because I should really be getting dressed and prepared for our journey."

The blacklister is taking them on a little tour in the English countryside.

Red smiles over at her, completely composed. Sets his empty cup down on the tray. He's going to leave.

Liz sets down her cup too, rises to her feet, blocking the path to the door.

"Red, you're right about staying in character," she says hurriedly. "So I think we should practice that again."

Her voice shakes a little but she meets his eyes.

"Give me a kiss, and then we'll have that drink together."

Red tilts his head with a suspicious look.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

No, of course she's not sure. Not at all.

Liz nods. Steps close to him, waits for his arms to enfold her before she leans into the sleek silk of his robe and raises her mouth for his kiss.

It's even better than last night. Red kisses her delicately, then draws back. She leans in and repeats his actions. He takes her face in his hands, explores her mouth as she presses herself against him. Yields to her as she kisses him back, allowing her set the pace once again.

Liz fumbles with the belt of his robe, feels him untie and push her heavy hotel robe off her shoulders to puddle on the floor.

'This is clearly in character," she murmurs, stepping close again for more kisses, his hands sliding beneath her cotton tank as she unbuttons his pajama top. 

Skin to bare skin, brushing herself against him. Kissing him so deeply she can barely breathe. Her hands are caressing him through his pajama bottoms when she hears him whispering her name.

"Lizzie. Lizzie."

He's trembling.

Red steps back away from her, only a half step really, but the absence of his warmth brings her abruptly to her senses.

She's panting, her tank top is up around her armpits, and he's already reaching down to button the last button of his pajama top closed over his exposed belly, the taut fabric of his pajama bottoms.

"Don't." Liz catches his hands, slides her grip to his wrists. She stares down, willing him not to button that button. 

Red takes a long, shuddering breath. 

She releases his wrists and steps in close, winds her arms around the widest point of his waist.

"We still need to have that drink," she says. As he breathes heavily, not moving, she presses a kiss into his chest hair, then turns her head and snuggles against him. Red smells soapy clean, his skin still moist from the shower.

Liz holds very still, pressing herself against him without moving.

He's holding her lightly, his hands barely touching her back, although barely seconds before he was kneading and caressing her flesh as if trying to set her every nerve aflame.

"You're killing me here, Lizzie," he remarks very softly, stroking up and down her spine with his fingertips as if memorizing the feel of her skin, her bones.

"I'm not the one who keeps stopping us," she whispers back.

Red steps back and gives her a very sour look, his mouth pinched as if he's considering but trying not to say something cruel.

She's not going to cry again.

Liz pulls down her tank top, stalks over to the dresser. Opens the bottle and sloshes scotch into both glasses.

Turns to see Red just standing there, his pajama top still hanging unbuttoned. Their robes lie entangled at his feet. He's somehow lost one of his slippers.

She wants him so badly, but not like this. Liz wants the impossible, the inconceivable. Not just one night, but tomorrow and tomorrow. A future together. Although she can't imagine how that might look.

"To us." She lifts one glass, holds the other one out to him.

Very slowly, he advances, takes the glass, holds it back out to her. He has a far away look in his eyes. The smallest of smiles lifts the very corners of his mouth.

"To us."

Scotch before breakfast. That's practically unheard of. Not impossible, but at least it's a start.


	5. Practice in the Evening

Contrary to her expectations, the trip with the blacklister comes off perfectly. After they separate from his party in the hotel lobby to dress for dinner, Red gives her a smug smile as he ushers her into the elevator.

"Well done, Lizzie."

He slides in his key card and presses one button. The button for the penthouse.

She looks over at him, looks away. He's layered as ever for the cold weather, with a long scarf, cashmere coat, wool three piece suit. She feels tiny beside him in her tight black turtleneck sweater, black leather skirt and high boots.

Her feet are killing her. Their day required a great deal of walking.

"Drink before dinner?" he says in response to her unspoken question.

A drink would be very nice, actually. And certainly in character. She nods.

"Just one."

Champagne is waiting on ice in his room.

"How did you know I'd say yes?" she asks him, as he begins shedding his outer garments onto a spindly gold-framed chair by the door. He sets his hat carefully on a small table nearby.

The suite is warm and elegantly decorated with antiques, dominated by a pair of sofas separated by a table arranged in front of the fireplace.

Red shrugs. 

"I generally have a glass or two before dinner."

Liz crosses to the sofa on the right and sits near the fire. Sets her purse on the floor at her feet.

There's a soft pop as he opens the bottle. Now in his shirtsleeves and vest, Red carries their glasses over and sits at the other end of the sofa, leaving plenty of space between them.

Sitting alone with him without the blacklister listening in, Liz doesn't know quite what to say. She's very aware of the big double doors to his bedroom standing open behind her on the far side of the room.

"This is really quite civilized," he remarks, gazing around the elegant room with a faint air of approval.

She's not sure whether he's referring to the hotel, or the fact that she hasn't tried to kiss him. Yet.

Red takes a drink of his champagne and starts undoing his tie. Liz sips and watches as he rolls it up carefully and places it on the table.

Dress shirt open at the neck, he sits back with one arm stretched out on the back of the couch. Not as if he's inviting her to sit closer. As if he's confirming the distance between them. 

She finishes her champagne and lays her head back. She's getting warm, sitting so close to the fire.

"I wish we could skip dinner and the theater tonight," she says, turning her head and resting her cheek against the back of the sofa. Blinking sleepily at him.

Red chuckles, leans forward and pours them both a second glass of champagne. He seems to be relaxing at last.

"What would you prefer to do this evening, Lizzie?"

"Stay in, take a bath, do some reading?"

Red cocks an eyebrow at her. 

"Really?"

She nods, enjoying the way his eyes go distant for a moment, as if he's imagining her sinking into a hot bath.

How foolish is she, to even consider passing up an actual night on the town with Red, just to sit in a bath and moon over his kisses? She tried thinking about him earlier, the taste and feel of his yielding mouth, but every time he caught her eyes she blushed, which interfered with her FBI traitor act.

Liz watches as Red swallows some more champagne, still smiling faintly.

"Unless you want to use the tub up here, you probably don't have time before we leave," he comments.

"Is it bigger than mine?" she asks him.

"Have a look." Red waves his hand in the general direction of the bedroom.

Liz sets down her champagne glass and levers herself off the couch to her feet.

She wanders through his bedroom, trying not to stare at the enormous, king size bed. It's freshly made with white sheets and heavy maroon blankets. The room appears immaculate to her swift assessment, nothing to indicate Red's presence.

She turns on the lights in his bathroom.

There's a sunken marble tub, complete with an arching brass faucet in the shape of a dolphin. The walls and ceiling are covered with mirrors.

Here there are a few toiletries set out - a shaving razor and soap, an ordinary toothbrush, bristles up, in an otherwise empty glass. A marble niche holds an array of small, square, blue glass bottles. The air smells faintly of cologne.

Liz steps into the room, briefly tries to imagine Red bathing in the enormous tub. It seems somehow to cross a line, visualizing him naked when he doesn't want to undress for her.

It's easier to imagine him shaving, a towel around his waist, or brushing his teeth.

She's pathetic. She's staring at an empty bathtub, daydreaming about Red brushing his teeth.

"There's bubble bath," Red informs her unexpectedly from behind. "This hotel stocks a rather nice line."

She looks up at the mirrored wall in front of her, sees him reflected in the doorway, smiling with his customary composure.

Maybe this is one way through to the impossible. The intimate, yet ordinary details of life.

"Yes, I'd love a bath, Red," she smiles back at him, deliberately dimpling so he knows she caught that brief instant of panic at her assent. "If you wouldn't mind fetching my dress for tonight from my room? It's the green one at the front of the closet."

"Of course."

Liz turns on the water and starts adding bubble bath from one of the blue glass bottles to the tub. She doesn't need to say more. He'll know to bring the right shoes for the dress back with it as well.

"What a great idea," she enthuses, starting to peel off her sweater, the bathroom door still standing wide open.

Red retreats, and as he does so, she catches a glimpse in the mirror of him swallowing his entire glass of champagne, his face unusually flushed.


	6. Practice in the Bath

Raymond Reddington smiles blandly at the blacklister as he steps into the elevator.

"Interesting choice of attire," the man comments, looking pointedly at the silky green dress looped over Red's arm, the matching spike heels dangling from his fingers.

Red smirks back at him, waiting for the elevator to move. Since Liz invited him to use the key card to her room, he used the opportunity to examine her belongings. If she asks, he had to rummage through her luggage to locate fresh nylons and underthings.

Her taste in lingerie is as prosaic as he feared, dominated by cotton boy shorts and athletic bras.

Her reading material is eclectic. 

She has very little jewelry. Red would happily remedy that, if she would let him.

While pursuing a blacklister, Liz will accept rides on his jet, expensive meals, luxury hotel stays, but nothing for herself. Nothing permanent, nothing that could jeopardize her career. She'll borrow designer gowns, but not keep them.

He could buy everything she brought on this trip, luggage included, with the money in his wallet right now, and not even notice the expense.

Grocery store shampoo. Drug store cosmetics.

"See you later." 

Red gives the blacklister a cheery little wave as the doors of the elevator close behind him and it continues to ascend. 

Liz is worthy of the finest of everything money can buy. She somehow manages to look professional despite the evident economies she's practicing. He needs to dig a little deeper into her financial situation, figure out what she's doing with the bulk of her salary.

Red stares down at his hand-sewn Italian shoes. He couldn't sustain his persona on her budget. He had more income from his grandmother's trust fund in prep school than Liz earns today. And money was worth considerably more, back then.

She doesn't care about his wealth. If anything, it's one more barrier between them. As if their age difference weren't enough. Let alone the small detail that he's a criminal and a traitor to his country, everything she's sworn an oath to oppose.

Red lets himself back into the suite, tosses his hat on the table, his jacket on the chair, and crosses to his bedroom. He arranges the green dress smoothly on the bed, setting the heels neatly on the floor next to it.

The door to the bathroom still stands open, the citrus bubble bath scenting the air.

"Red?"

Red pulls nylons from one pocket, a cotton thong and a pair of black lace panties from the other. Sets them beside the dress. They were the best of the available choices.

"Yes, Lizzie?" His voice comes out low, hoarse. 

"Red?" she calls out again, a little louder.

He steps reluctantly to the door of the bathroom, relieved to find Liz up to her neck in bubbles, looking very smug. Her hair is piled up on her head in a towel which has been twisted into a turban.

"You called?" he asks her, trying for a light touch. She looks so young, so beautiful with her face scrubbed clean of make-up, flushed with the heat of the bath water. Her skin is probably a gorgeous shade of pink beneath the creamy froth of the bubble bath.

"Yes, Red, this bath is wonderful," she exclaims, sitting forward a little, her shoulders rising from the foam. Barely remaining decent. Her tone of voice can only be described as arch. "Would you like to scrub my back for me?"

He frowns down at her, opens his mouth to speak.

But she's already turning, kneeling, the bare curve of her back no more than what an evening dress might expose.

Except that her skin is glowing pink and glistening wet, a few stray bubbles clinging to her shoulder blades.

"Yes. Then you need to get dressed, or we'll be late." 

Better. His voice is still deep, but not so hoarse.

Red gets down on his knees on the bathmat, removes his cuff links and rolls up his sleeves.

He dips a fresh washcloth from the stack beside the tub into the bubble-filled water, noting that it's still very hot. She must be adding water as she bathes. Red clutches the side of the tub with his left hand for balance, leans over and washes her back in slow circles with his right. Dips the washcloth into the water again and again.

"So good," she murmurs. "That feels so good."

He runs the washcloth over her shoulders, up and down her ribs in smaller circles, stopping at the curve of her waist. Finally he scrubs back and forth from her neck to the very base of her spine, rubbing between each vertebra. 

The smooth, unblemished skin of her back, so different from his wreck of a body.

"Red?"

Liz looks back over her shoulder at him, twists and raises up on her knees, her arms folded over her chest as she rises slightly from the bubbles.

"Yes?" he asks her, ringing out the washcloth and setting it on the edge of the tub.

At least she's covering herself, although another inch and her hips will be out of the water.

"Bath tub kiss?" she says softly.

"There's no such thing," he informs her, swaying towards her on his knees just the same. Clenching his hands on the side of the tub to avoid reaching out for her.

"Yes, there is," she contradicts him, her lips parting slightly. "It's completely in character. So we need to practice."

Red is about to tell her, rather sharply, that there is no possible occasion on which they would ever bathe in the presence of the blacklister, when he realizes his body has already made the decision for him.

He leans over the tub, heedless of the bubbles, and kisses her with all the passion coursing through him. Clinging to the side of the tub so hard his fingers hurt.

Liz makes an urgent little sound and a wave of heated bathwater sloshes over him, soaking his vest and shirt as she turns in the tub and winds her arms around his neck.

His hands are on her without thought, sliding over her hot, wet curves as desire slices though him.

He wants to fling himself into the bath with her. Drag her out and feast his eyes on her. She's arching into his caresses, a continuous whisper of sounds coming from her lips as his lips move to her neck.

"Yesyesyesyesyesyes."

Her wet hands move over the curve of his head, then to his neck, her fingers starting to slip down the back of his collar. Wetness trickling down his back.

"Lizzie."

Red sits back on his knees, breathing hard. He's so aroused his teeth hurt.

Liz clutches the side of the tub, breathing just as hard, the bubbles around her trembling.

"Maybe we need more practice?" she manages unsteadily.

"Get dressed for dinner, Lizzie," Red responds, regretting his sharp tone even as the words leave his mouth. He tries again, gentling his voice with an effort.

"We need get going."

"One more kiss?" Liz responds, her voice husky with desire.

He shakes his head vehemently, clambers dripping to his feet without looking at her again. 

She's clearly trying to drive him insane.


	7. A Night Cap in the Bar and Practice

It's close to midnight when they return to the hotel.

"How about a night cap?" Liz suggests, giving him a significant glance from under her long, heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

"Yes. In the bar," responds Red tersely, steering her into a high leather booth in the dimmest section of the long, narrow bar, next to the hallway leading to the restrooms.

The evening went well, but the blacklister can't promise delivery by tomorrow. They may need to be here for another day, another night. He hasn't told her yet.

Red folds their evening coats onto the seat beside him, orders scotch for them both, with ice and soda for Liz, neat for himself. The middle-aged server visibly warms in response to the expensive brand he orders.

She leans across the table, smiling at him. Her green gown has a high neck and long sleeves, but it's nearly backless. 

"Our last night in London," she says, lifting her glass in his direction before taking a small sip.

"To our last night," he toasts in agreement, inwardly wincing as her eyes slide away for a moment. He's not usually so clumsy. There's something about Liz that throws him off his game. As if he can't help displaying his inner conflict to her, daring her to respond in the face of his inevitable surge of denial and regret.

He made his choices long ago. No matter that he's the only one rubbing his nose in that bitter stench.

She deserves so much more, so much better than he can ever offer her. The only thing worse than resisting her, would be watching her come to that realization and pull away. Pity him for his vulnerability, for exposing his heart.

Red has reminded her that she has healed from the betrayal of her false marriage. That the world of desire is still available to her. That has to be enough.

He doesn't want to spend another night here in London. He doesn't even want to go back upstairs to his lonely suite that still smells of citrus and frustration.

"Red?"

Liz is leaning across the table, her lips barely moving. 

"I thought he was going upstairs to sleep?"

It's the blacklister. He's sitting at the bar, talking on a cell phone. His men are nowhere in sight. A tall, white-haired man in evening dress enters the bar and sits down at his side.

Red's nerves begin to warn him of danger as he rapidly reassesses the situation.

"Let's practice in the hall," he whispers back, grabbing her wrist and pulling her after him around the corner. There is a narrow niche between the restroom doors, halfway down the blind hall. No exit.

He pushes Liz into the niche, her back against the oak paneled wall, crowds in against her, lowering his head and giving her a brief, passionless kiss.

"I don't think he saw us," she whispers.

Red kisses her again.

"He told me it might take 24 hours to deliver the merchandise," Red whispers back. "I think he has another buyer. He can't believe we're spying on him."

She stares up at him.

"Kiss me like you mean it," he breathes into her open mouth. Winds his arms around her and presses her hard against the wall, grinding against her, not sparing himself. Allowing her the feel and taste of his desire.

She responds without hesitation, legs spread as far apart as the gown will allow, her mouth wide and yearning.

The blacklister laughs out loud, not a foot away, about to push the swinging door to the men's room open.

Red glances over his shoulder, makes a show of embarrassment.

"I know you offered us a night cap, but Agent Keen and I had certain matters to discuss," he states baldly, stepping back and deliberately adjusting his clothes.

Liz remains leaning with her back to the wall, her skirt rucked up and her lipstick smeared.

"Hello, again," she says, blushing, before turning her eyes to the ground.

The blacklister looks from one of them to the other, fixes his gaze on Red.

"Doesn't one of you have a room?" he asks pointedly.

Red rolls his eyes and shrugs.

Liz puts out her hand. 

"My room," she says, blushing brighter. "We can use my room."

"Brunch tomorrow," the blacklister admonishes them, as Red allows Liz to tow him away, stopping at the booth only to grab their coats.

The server will put their drinks on the room tab. They need to get out of here and contact Cooper.

If what Red believes is true, the blacklister will be gone long before brunch.


	8. Practice Pays Off

"Stay put," Cooper advises them when Red calls him. "Local agents are on their way."

Red is about to refuse, announce that he's returning to his suite, when Liz starts shaking her head. Her clothes are still on his bed, his bathroom in disarray from her bath.

"I guess that practice paid off," says Liz a little sadly. She crosses the room, pours them both a drink from the open bottle of scotch. Hands one to Red, sits down on the end of the bed next to him with the other.

He sips scotch as he coordinates the rest of the operation on the phone, watches out of the corner of his eye as she pretends to drink, the level in her glass not falling at all.

She sets it aside completely to admit the local agents, dressed in hotel livery, into the room. 

"Over here," Red gestures to the senior agent, handing him the phone. He pulls out the samples of the merchandise provided to him by The Miner, hands them over, gives his statement.

Liz is standing near the fireplace, filling in the details for two more agents. Her elegant green dress looks odd, and it take Red a moment to realize that she's standing exactly as she would in a suit - legs braced, shoulders square. As steady on her spike heels as she is in her ordinary boots.

The agents are responding to her as a colleague, nodding their heads respectfully. She has the kind of presence, when she chooses to summon it.

"Anything else you can tell us that might be helpful?" the senior agent asks.

Red shakes his head, not looking over at Liz again.

"If he meets us for brunch we can proceed as originally planned, but I suspect he won't show."

Another agent raps at the door, enters rolling a large case of equipment. She's disguised as a waiter, the gear covered with a long white tablecloth.

"Can't you arrange another room for this?" Red asks, lowering his voice. The local agents are giving every sign of setting up their operations base for the night.

The senior agent shakes his head.

"The hotel is full."

Red frowns and shakes his head. Keeps his tone deliberately sour.

"I'll take Agent Keen to my suite, then - she can sleep on the couch."

"Do you want one of us, for protection?"

Red shakes his head again, dismissively.

"Agent Keen?" He raises his voice and Liz breaks off mid-sentence and turns towards him.

"I'm going to bring your things up to my suite."

Liz nods shortly at him.

"I'll be up when I'm finished," she responds, turning back to the other agents without so much as a smile. Good.

Red collects her bags from the closet and her toiletries from the bathroom, and escapes from the room with a sigh of relief. He doesn't believe the agents will accomplish anything tonight, but he's not going to argue.

Either the blacklister will be at brunch tomorrow, or they'll catch him transferring the merchandise to another buyer at that same time. Since he'll know Red is safely out of the way.

Red lets himself into his suite and sighs in relief at the sight of the fresh bottle of champagne waiting for him on ice. He didn't want to grab the scotch bottle in front of the agents.

He drops the luggage by the door, opens the bottle, and pours himself a glass, then strolls to the window to lift the heavy drape and peer outside. It's raining heavily, the empty cobblestone street shining beneath the street lamps.

Their last night.

He'll give her the bed. Red won't get much sleep, not with Liz in the room. After the feel of her body yielding against him as he pressed her against the wall, he wouldn't trust himself just to sleep at her side.

She doesn't take no for an answer, she just continues to push back, testing his defenses.

Her determination is a quality he admires in their work, but it makes letting her go all the more painful. Even if she abandons her efforts to drive him crazy with desire, as he expects she will now that the blacklister is out of the picture, he can't forget the texture of her skin. The taste of her willing mouth.

He needs to get away from her, give himself time and distance, bring his long-term goals back into focus.

Perhaps she'll just revert to her normal, cold demeanor. The way she slid right back into her FBI persona when the local agents arrived.

Red drains his glass of champagne, then strolls over to pour himself a second glass.

To Liz, the playful, passionate woman who desires him is the persona, and the FBI agent who keeps Red at a careful distance is her real self. She might be fascinated by him as a notorious criminal, even briefly, perversely attracted, but nothing more. 

Red seats himself wearily on the couch and sips his champagne, gazing into the fire. Mentally preparing himself for her arrival.

***

Liz pulls the key card Red gave her earlier in the evening from her purse and lets herself quietly into the suite. She half-expects Red will be in bed already, but he's sitting on the couch by the fire, his shirt collar unbuttoned, an empty champagne flute dangling from his fingers. His tie rolled on the table.

"Sorry to be so late," she says, crossing to sit beside him and pour herself a glass of champagne. She takes a sip and reaches down to slip out of her heels.

He makes a little gesture with his empty glass, then turns to look at her.

"Sleepy yet, Lizzie? You're welcome to take the bed."

Liz examines Red carefully. There are deep circles beneath his eyes, pinched lines at his mouth. His tone proclaims his disinterest in her answer, but his legs are crossed away from her, and he seems unexpectedly exhausted. Old and sad. 

She's not looking at the man who kissed her in the bar. This is Red as she's seen him before, when she's rejected or hurt him. Or when something in his life has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

"Red, what's happened?"

Liz leans toward him, lays her hand on his upper thigh. Gives a comforting squeeze. He flinches beneath her touch, drawing back into the couch.

"Nothing's wrong, Lizzie," he says in a tired voice. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

She doesn't lift her hand from his thigh, just stares at him in the firelight as he gazes away from her. The silvery stubble of his hair, gleaming in the firelight. She knows the feel of it, the full curve of his jaw, the soft crepe skin at the very base of his neck.

In the elevator on the way up to the suite, Liz imagined stripping off her green dress, sliding naked into bed with Red. Showing him without words how she feels. That's not what he needs now. 

The intimate, the ordinary details.

"OK, I'm going to get a quick shower, and then I'd appreciate it if you will climb in bed and at least hold me until I fall asleep."

She gives his thigh a firm pat and heads for the bathroom without waiting for his response.

When she emerges from the bathroom, toweling her hair dry, he's waiting for her in bed, his dinner suit, shirt, shoes and socks flung in disarray on the floor near the closet door. 

Liz shuts off the bathroom light, leaving the suite in virtual darkness save the flickering light from the fireplace in the next room. She drops her robe, slides naked into bed. Reaches for Red, feels him tense up as she slides close and lays her head on his chest.

He's lying on his back, still wearing his undershirt and boxers. Liz rubs her face against him, feeling his chest hair through the thin cotton fabric of his shirt. She drapes her arm over him, tugs herself a little closer.

His arms come around her in response, holding her lightly. As if he expects to release her at any moment.

"All that practice, it wasn't real, was it, Red?" she whispers. Feels him tense even further, then relax when she just lies there, holding him.

"No, Lizzie," he whispers back. Sounding resigned. More like himself.

She presses a kiss against his chest. 

"If it was real, between us, how would it be?" she says softly.

Red chuckles without humor.

"We would have abandoned the blacklister to the local agents that first evening and never left your room," he responds. "We'd still be there now."

Liz snuggles closer. "Would you be in control, or would I?" she murmurs.

His arms tighten about her. He doesn't answer.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Red," she tells him quietly, "Because you know what I want."

He clears his throat, a low, deep sound that rumbles though his chest. "What is it you think you want, Lizzie?" 

She's not good with words when it comes to emotion, she'd rather use touch. But Red clearly needs this. 

"I want to keep practicing until we're perfect. Until you're willing for this to be real."

"Willing?" Disbelief in his tone. 

"It's been real for me since the first time you kissed me."

His arms tighten briefly. 

"Oh, Lizzie." Red presses a kiss onto the top of her head. "You need to get some sleep. Things will look very different in the morning."

He sounds so certain, so dismissive, but with her head on his chest, she can hear how fast his heart is beating. Can feel how he's tensing up, trying to control his breathing. She can tell now how badly he wants her. 

"I want things to look better in the morning," Liz whispers back, very slowly, carefully, drawing a line down the center of his chest with the tip of her index finger. "I want things to look happier."

Her fingertip traces the curve of his soft belly through his shirt, skirts the deep indent of his navel.

"Lizzie?"

"I want everyone to look at me and see your lover."

As Red draws in a sudden, sharp breath, Liz slides her finger down the hard curve of him, the thin fabric of his boxers straining as she strokes him lightly with her fingernails, then the palm of her hand.

"To see the woman who loves you."

He's holding her body against him so tightly now, his hips straining upwards as she keeps her touch light.

"So, Red?" Liz leans up on her elbow so she can see his face in the firelight, still stroking him very delicately through his boxers. "No complicated story? Just yes or no?"

"You don't want to do this," he breathes out, finally. "Make yourself a target. I'm not worth it."

"You don't get to be the judge of that," she responds, leaning close enough that she can trace between his parted lips with her tongue. His mouth tastes so good. Liz doesn't have enough presence of mind to begin to tell Red all the ways he's wrong about being worth it. She feels like she's dissolving into a puddle of desire.

Liz hesitates, their lips almost touching, her fingers still moving on him. She needs to hear it. He needs to say it. 

"Yes or no?" she whispers again. Struggles once more for the words, the right words, the ones he can accept. "You know I'm yours already. Be mine?"

He nods slightly. Relief sings through her. She holds her hand still on him, waiting.

"Yes," he whispers, surrendering. "Yours. I'm already yours."

Liz moves atop him, feeling his big body shift to accommodate her weight. Kissing him again and again.

"Mine," she whispers back happily. No longer just practicing. With every expectation of perfection.


	9. Epilogue

Raymond Reddington strolls out of his hotel suite with Elizabeth Keen on his arm. 

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asks her once again.

She gives him a firm nod.

"No hiding, no lying, no pretending I'm anything but proud to be seen with you," she responds.

He pats her hand where it rests on his forearm, gives a little shake of his head.

She leans her head on his shoulder for a moment as they wait for the elevator.

They both slept exceedingly well. Not for very long. But still. It was a perfect night.

And now, it's going to be a perfect day.


End file.
